Emperor Neuro (Nero)

This post is a continuation of other posts In Which Jamie Laments The Lack of Liberal Arts Values In Contemporary Workplace, so if you'd rather be drinking a beer, scratching yourself, and watching porn, I'd suggest now is a good time to be doing those activities rather than reading this blog.

Yesterday I was having a conversation with a nurse who claimed to "like nursing." This is the first time I've ever heard a nurse (even the nice, happy, shiny, friendly nurses who seem to exist in Mr. Roger's Neighborhood with the hand puppets in make-believe land) claim to like nursing. I've heard nurses say, "I like [insert this one, vague theoretical reason] about nursing, but I hate [insert twenty five gazillion specific, detailed, multi-faceted things about one of the crappiest professions on earth]."

I don't pretend to like nursing. In fact, I hate it. I like some of my patients, and I like some of the sympatico bond nurses share, but otherwise, I detest the job on just about every level I can think of. I feel like often times, my education and conscience are nothing but a handicap to my satisfaction level with the job, and an annoyance and hindrance to others around me.

Like, if I could just pretend I found being heckled for twelve hours over Mother's Plugged Up Bowels was an enjoyable experience, it'd be half the battle! Plus, I get weird, baffled looks by people all the time when I tell them things I think are important to know about patient care, like, "That patient isn't going to brain surgery tonight, after all." In return, I get a lame response like, "I don't care! I'm her GI doc! Brains don't exist in my bowel-obsessed world!"

Uh, okay, dude.

At work, I've found myself lately declining Latin nouns in my head while some Crazy Doctor or Family Member is yelling at me for no particular reason that makes sense. I hear the screaming, but in my head, I'm reciting, "agricola, agricolae, agricolae, agricolam, agricola, agricolarum, agricolis agricolas, agricolis."

This strategy probably gives me a glazed over, spacey look, but who cares what I look like? It doesn't make it any easier to kiss some person's ass, but I at least have some kind of distraction while I'm intoning tonelessly: "Yes, I understand why you're irrationally angry at the wrong fucking person." or, "Oh, that's interesting! I never thought of being handed my own ass on a platter as germane to patient care! Thank you so, so much for bringing that to my attention!" or, "Okay! You're sooooo right, Psycho Family Member/Egotistical Doctor: eating my own shit is a completely enjoyable and well-deserved activity! I do suck ass! Thank you for reminding me of my own insignificance in the world!"

Afterwards, I have a fantasy in which I'm a student attending university again, and my job doesn't suck.